“Graceless”

I’m not going into the whole thing. It would take too long and I have things to take care of or I’m sleeping outdoors again tonight. But the short of it is that I’m the person I used to avoid. I’d avert my eyes. Or I’d look right at me and say, “I can’t help you.”, as if looking meant anything. I am homeless. A street person is the nice sanitized version. A bum. A beggar. A loser. Probably a thief and almost certainly strung out on something. And here’s the part I find too funny. My name is Grace.

How long have I been out here? One year, eight months, fifteen days and about nineteen hours. More or less. It’s May now but I’m not out of the woods. This is only spring time to people with apartments. To us out here sleeping rough (isn’t that just too fucking poetic?), it’s winter until around the end of June. And last night was winter for real. I know better than to be thinking I could indulge myself in a hot sandwich and a bottle. That of course I’d pick up the other $15 I’d need to cop a room uptown. Stupid.

So I’m moving slow this morning. I’m nowhere near any of my preferred begging spots. In fact I’m not entirely sure where I am and if I could just hop the turnstile down on that subway, I’m sure I could find my way back to my part of the city. But I come to my senses. I’m about to the point where one more summons for fare-jumping is going to land me back in lock up. At least the sun’s out. I’ll walk. Walking will warm me up, right? But my clothes are wet and chafe against my skin. Trudging with my head down I about jump out of my skin when here’s Anson, yelling like I’m across the street. What a dope.

“Grac-eeeeee, girl! I needa buck. Gotta buck?”

“I look like a gotta buck?”

Now, this kid’s name is not Anson. Every time I used to see him he told me a different name. But here lately it’s been Anson most of the time. Still that’s sensible. I should try that. He falls into step next to me and we get a nice wide berth on the sidewalk. I used to be the one looking away and holding my breath just in case so I suppose I could give them a pass. But, man, they should see how they like it if this was them. When I’m king of the world everyone is going to be homeless and out on the street for a month. In the winter. That should get some heads straightened around.

“You doing ok?” I ask even though the only acceptable response is a lie.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He lies but that black eye doesn’t.

Around us the city roars along doing what it does. All those closed faces and swiftly swinging legs. Everyone is getting to work and I need to as well. But now here’s Anson and he’s got that thing going on. He’s like a damned dog. Stop it. I can’t get dragged off into the weeds with this wacked out kid. But the sun feels good and, man, is it ever the perfect day to get wasted. See, here’s where I always get into trouble. Like yesterday with the sandwich and the bottle. That certainty that I got this. I can have it both ways. Why not? Don’t I deserve a break after all I’ve been through?

Anson darts away. Good. Now I can get back on track. But just like that he’s back beaming and holding. How does he do that? I haven’t even figured out how to eat yet today and he’s copped.

“Carlyle’s always got the good stuff.” He grins and we both know what’s next.

It’s nearly dark when I rouse myself. I was right. Today was a supremely good day to be wasted. Once Anson and I found a place where we wouldn’t be fucked with and hit the pipe I didn’t even notice my wet clothes. And now check it out. They’re dry. Anson’s gone. I pull my pants back up and try again to figure out where I am. And what day it is. I used to try and keep track of shit like that, too, but fuck that. Like it matters.

Motherfuckers think we’re lazy out here on the streets. I never worked so hard in my life as I do now. Sick days? Vacation? Mental Health days? Please. It’s 24/7 out here, baby, and I was stupid to blow the day nodding and letting Anson diddle himself between my legs. I heft my backpack crammed with dirty clothes and part of a bottle and get to work. I’ll have to work with what I got around here because it’s too far to any of my tried and true spots. I hate breaking in new spots but that’s just another thing I’ve gotten used to out here.

Now, I’m not going to give too much away here about how to beg. I tried a lot of different stuff to put together means at the beginning. Now I got it down. Mostly. It still sucks and it’s still hard as hell but I have my places and my methods. Trouble right now is that it’s probably too late to do much more than get food money together (no bottle for you, idiot). Jesus, I’m hungry. Like light-headed, pass out hungry. It never works out so well begging when I’m this hungry and forget stealing. Let’s be clear: it is not better to spend the night in a holding cell than out on the street.

I have to figure something out and right away. Do I settle in and scrape together what I can on my corner or do I check out that alleyway full of dumpsters I passed earlier with Anson? (Dumpsters after greenmarkets are better for the vegetables and what have you, but I was positively floored by what these restaurants toss out as garbage! First time I ever had schnitzel….and it ain’t all that, let me tell you) Reluctantly, I head towards the Row. I’m that hungry. So hungry that, regretfully, I’m probably out on the street again tonight and with not nearly enough alcohol. God dammit.

It’s still early; the best and most edible garbage doesn’t start hitting the bins until after closing when whole roasts and pots of fancy pastas and casseroles that were barely touched show up. There’s less of that now since some genius came up with the idea of trucking all that unused food to the shelters and detoxes, but trust me, this city still generates enough uneaten food for me and about 40,000 other losers. What a great country, huh?

I’m shaking by the time I make it to the first dumpster in the row and still have to find something to stand on to be able to reach inside. First, though, I need to sit down before I fall. This alley is narrower than most but has a drain in the middle so the cracked concrete isn’t too nasty. I stay hidden out of sight from the rest of the alley and almost immediately hear voices. These places are magnets and I knew I would have company. I’ll just have to wait.

I guess I dozed off because I jerk awake with all the adrenalin alarms going off at once, automatically yanking my backpack away from some fucker trying to roll me. My thief is what we used to call retarded. The stink off him is gagging and he can barely see through his mat of hair. Without more than about half a second’s thought I go full-on feral, snapping at the fucker, howling and growling and shrieking with my head down and my hair in my face. Works every time. Ok, at least this time. Someday, somebody’s gonna have a knife or something but so far I still got my backpack. I check. And my bottle.

My thief takes off laughing and talking (I guess to himself) in that breathless hiccup-y way of mental cases. Now, food. I settle back for a bit to scope out the situation. The fucker did me two favors. Both his upended crate by the nearest open dumpster and the tail end of the adrenalin rush mean I get my dinner without collapsing. Nice. A bag of dinner rolls, something wrapped in tinfoil, and (my lucky night!) half a bottle of sparkling water for my dinner. This place bears remembering if they got lazy ass staff that doesn’t bother emptying bottles before tossing.

Finding places to do usual life stuff used to shut me right down but now I don’t hesitate. Tonight my dining room is behind that first dumpster by the street in case I need to make any fast moves. Once I’ve eaten, I got to find someplace to shit. If I can shit, that is. Opiate constipation has its upside when one doesn’t have consistent access to bathrooms. But there’s always that AA clubhouse and that’s as good a place as any and better than most.

There are a couple of these clubhouse type places; one down in Soho and another in Times Square. There’s one on the Upper East Side but I don’t tend to get up that way very often. (Go figure) I prefer the one down near Soho because the people leave me alone. Up in Times Square some zealot or another is always trying to get me sober and who needs that? Climbing the steep stairs to the dim room where the meetings happen, I keep my head down so that no one gets any ideas about making contact. This room is a lot like a dive bar. I like that. Miraculously I do manage a fairly respectable dump and then go back to the far corner, tuck my bag in under my chair where no one can get at it, and settle in for some real sleep. I’ll say this for these Christian outfits like AA and the YMCA, without them I wouldn’t have had more than like an hour of real sleep since I’ve been on the street.

I arrive in the middle of a meeting and promptly zonk right out. I get roused a little when everyone gets up to join hands to do that prayer thing and then all hang around laughing and talking. I’m awake but don’t let on. It’s been like a week I think since I made it to the shelter for a shower so I’m pretty ripe.

Back when I was still living like a normal person, I used to think that if I was ever out on the street getting a membership to the YMCA would be the ticket (who thinks like that?). I mean look, showers every day and a safe place to sleep until around 10 at night. I was so stupid when I first was out on the street that I actually managed to wangle a month’s membership at the Y uptown and had it made. I worked my ass off to put together the means to re-up the next month and you know those shits wouldn’t let me join just unless I signed up as a member with a credit card or debit card? The bitch stood there and said that the guy who’d let me sign up for one month shouldn’t have done that and wasn’t working there anymore anyway.

Fuckers. In every direction. I’m surrounded by selfish, stupid fuckers. I’m aware of the looks I’m getting here but am happy enough for my unpopulated little corner and drift back to sleep as the next meeting gets underway.

Before I know it it’s 4am and the last meeting of the day is finishing up. I try to hit the door quickly, not making any trouble for the guy who has to close the place up. I’ve seen others give him a hard time and can tell he’s been out here himself by the way he pops them out and, if they’re real trouble, keeps them out. I’ve heard people call him Earl. I make it a point to never speak to these people, or any people really if I can help it. I nod and head down the stairs.

“Hey, Miss, hang on a minute” that’s Earl.

I keep going. It suits me to let people think I’m deaf or stupid. He lets me go and I appreciate that. It’s not too bad out here tonight. A little chilly but dry. I survey my options now that I’m rested. I’m hungry again but not starving. And, hey, right! I have about half a bottle left. My spirits rise a little. I consider the pan-handling prospects over by the train now. It’s rush hour for the bridge and tunnel crowd to be staggering back to the suburban paradises they flee every weekend. I’ve had pretty good luck with them sometimes.

I find like seven or eight half smoked cigarettes on the way to the subway station. It’s funny, but I never smoked until things went south for me. I didn’t drink much either. And drugs? Please. My body was a temple, thank you very much. Now we’re talking nasty bus station bathroom and I’ll take any relief I can find out here.

I don’t work the trains anymore. I stopped that the night I passed like six other losers coming the other way, each with the same tired crap. “Excuse me ladies and gennelmen………..” blah blah blah. I have my own way of doing things. Sometimes I think I should write a book or something.

Tonight things run fair to party cloudy. No big folding money or anything but not bad. About enough for a room except there’s no point in wasting the means at this hour; not with stupid 9am checkouts at the kinds of dives I can afford. Perching on a stool I just rented for the price of my burger I watch the parade. I run a quick calculation and, yep, it’s Saturday night all right. With the weather easing it’s as if the entire goddamned world is packed into this corner of the city.

I’m especially entranced by the women. What are these strange creatures, some gliding and some tottering along in ridiculous shoes? Tiny, shimmery skirts barely cover asses; some of which really ought to be covered better but some have even me salivating. And this being where and when it is, some of those folks in tight shimmery hooker outfits are not female.

Everyone is talking as if they’re on one of those old-fashioned long distance calls and everyone is laughing. I still laugh. I laughed this morning with Anson when he copped. But it’s never that full out, care-free howl like I’m surrounded by now. That’s something I never did even when I was the nice lady with the cat in 7C.

Burger finished, it’s time to find a safe space to tuck in and get a little rest. I turn onto a side street, dodging the drunks and find a slight depression holding garbage cans and the broken pieces of a baby stroller.

Here I fold myself into a nice little ball of invisible, finish off that half a bottle, and am out like a light. Well, like a nightlight that keeps the hallway lit in case of monsters. Real sleep doesn’t happen out here but I manage a reasonable substitute for the couple hours I need to get to Sunday. Sundays are weird. There have been Sundays when I have racked up enough means to get a cheap room somewhere for like a week. Other times I get nothing. There never seems to be an in between on Sundays.

With some rest and an adjusted attitude I will make tomorrow my day. A week indoors, man, that would that be just the thing right now.

I’m awake with the dawn and can tell right away that it’s going to be a good day. It even smells good and the light is optimistic. My Sunday hopes for once are not misplaced. I’m gold. I can’t hit a wrong note out here today. I even get a couple of well-meaning young people who want to “engage”.

I’m in a pretty good mood and don’t snarl at them. If they can stand the stench rising off of me I’m game to listen to their foolishness. And, bless his heart, one earnest young man pays me generously for my time with two lovely folded up twenties in my cup as he takes his leave.

I wrap up earlier than I would usually because it’s clear that the gods love me today. I indulge in a good meal at a diner after making sure to wash up as best I can in their john. In a show of belief in the kindness of these imagined gods I go right ahead after dinner and get me that room. I am sleeping indoors tonight.

It’s still early-ish as I accept the keys to 203R on the second floor with a killer view of a brick wall, a narrow (clean) bed and a shower that works. First thing: that shower. It’s warm and reasonably comfortable in here so I try something radical.

I slide under the sheets stark naked. I lay very still. Gradually I begin to go rigid and then I’m shaking. Yeah, no. Bad idea. I scramble out of the bed and pull on an old dirty sweater because I have nothing clean and get back under the covers. Ok, it’s not ideal but being in this bed right now is heavenly. Even better I don’t conk out cold. Instead I spend the next two hours or so dozing. I rise briefly to savor the blanket on top of me and sink down into nothing scary or hard.

When I finally do wake up early Monday, I just lay here counting the specks on the ceiling above me glad that that all-out screaming fight is happening two doors down and not next door.

It’s time to get moving. I’m just out of my second shower of the morning and it’s time to lug my stinky pile of clothes to the laundromat down the block. The sun is out and, for the moment, things look pretty ok. Yes, it’s only a week, but in a week I should be able to scrounge up the means for another week, see?

Last time I had a room I let Anson and a couple other losers in to shoot dope and nod. And give me some. Yeah, that’s not happening again.

I sopped out a T-shirt and my lightest weight pants in the bathroom sink when I got to the room and hung them up to dry so I won’t have to wear smelly, dirty things to the laundromat. They’re still a little damp but it’s warm enough out there this morning that it’s ok. As I’m stuffing the filthy old clothes back into my backpack I think about maybe getting myself a laundry bag but pull myself up sharp.

This is how it starts. And then before you know it I’m one of those basket cases lugging six grocery carts from bench to bench down in the subway system. See, to the people who move away when I sit down anywhere, I look like one of the losers. And, yeah, in many respects I suppose I am one.

But I won’t be staying out here. You had best believe I was first in line to sign up for food stamps and I’ll trample old ladies to get a semi-decent room but I have seen people out here turn down all kinds of help. I guess it’s about them being mentally unstable or something, but not me.

And that reminds me. I think I’ve got an appointment with my parole officer coming up here soon.

Monday mid-afternoon and the laundromat isn’t too bad. The usual. Couple of kids running around and the short brown girls in the back washing and folding other people’s laundry. Into the washer with my sad little bundle of seriously nasty clothes.

I then park myself on a molded gray plastic chair to stare out the smudgy plate glass window and not think. There are two slender young things in those head scarves Muslim women have to wear with impossibly, beautifully dark skin murmuring softly to each other. The kids are tussling around shrieking and laughing. People walk by in pairs or groups or holding conversations up next to their heads on the smart phones everyone has these days.

And I mean everyone. I see kids in strollers with them. I sit quietly and let it all rush past me, around me. Other than Anson day before yesterday I kind of can’t remember the last time I talked with anyone. I try out my voice and get a sideways look from an older gentleman reading one of the daily rags. Like I care.

I thought I knew what lonely was before. I thought I had been cold or hungry or frightened or filled with rage. I had no idea. No one does. Not until the bottom fell out and I was alone on the street did I understand helplessness, invisibility, and outright terror.

Right this minute I am not cold or hungry or frightened. The rage, that’s always simmering just off stage, ready to roar into the center of things and (often enough) save my ass…only it occasionally has the opposite effect. But, man, am I lonely.

I move through 8 million people every day. I can’t get away from them. I have no privacy to speak of except like I’ll have this week. But that’s not privacy. That’s isolation and it’s more toxic than the heroin I wish I had to smoke.

I refuse to dwell on this shit. The moment I realize that there is no ground under my feet I will never stop falling until I smash into whatever kills me. I move my clothes to the dryer and step outside to clear my head a little.

On a whim I ask for and, to my surprise, get a cigarette. The guy is looking me up and down as he lights it for me. Give me a break. I don’t get an entire, unsquashed cigarette very often and this one tastes and feels so good. I suck that hot, satisfying smoke into my lungs and adjust my head. I have work to do.

I don’t bother changing out of the clothes I washed in the tub. They’re dry now and who knows when I’ll be able to do laundry again. These will work. I’m clean out of means so it’s off to one of my spots with that motivating growl in my middle.

For the most part out here I behave like an animal because that keeps me alive. But when it comes to begging I’m polite and I’m also just the tiniest bit persistent. And I flirt. With men, women, old people, little kids, dogs. I flirt. I remember how to be charming and funny. When I can get a smile I can get a buck.

Is it the clean clothes? Something’s not working here. It’s been an hour and zilch. Not even a glance, a scowl, a ducked head. I know invisible. I live invisible 90% of the time but this is ridiculous.

It’s hard to do this no matter what and now it’s killing me. But this is my job; this is my lifeline. Yes, I can dumpster dive for something to eat and I do have a bed to sleep in tonight but what about a bottle? What about next week?

Here comes one of those Sunday go to prayer meeting ladies and I change my expression. No good. I’d take a break but I really want that bottle.

Three agonizing hours later I get my bottle and sandwich and tuck a wad of singles away towards next week. Back to my room. In the light of late afternoon I see how run down and kind of depressing it is but I’m in off the street. I have food.

As I eat perched on the edge of the bed I think about getting a library card. I want a book. I want to read. I want to read in a chair in my own apartment with my own television running with the sound muted and maybe another cat. Yeah. A cat. I want a job that I wish I didn’t have to get up every day and go to and I want a boss who gives me shit.

And I want another bottle. Two. I feel like getting hammered tonight in the safety of this dingy little room.

Another day, another hangover. I check. Good, there’s still something in the bottle. I can’t reach for it yet but I will. I gray out thinking I should get some water at least.

It’s stuffy and stinks when I finally sit up. First thing: into the shower. I stand in the tub and let all that glorious hot running water stream down over my face, through my hair, down the crack of my ass. God damn, that feels good.

I find some bread left over from yesterday when I finally emerge from the bathroom feeling cleaner than I have in months. That and the rest of what’s in the bottle and I think I’m ready to face the day. I look out the one window. Raining. With a rare welling up of ease and comfort I look back at the bed and decide to have me a day off.

That seemed like such a good idea five hours ago. Now I stand here on the corner and it’s like I’m not here at all. Like there’s thin air here and not a hungry, worn out, increasingly pissed off person.

I’m such a jerk. And it’s not even as if sleeping the day away was refreshing or anything. It’s still raining and it’s gotten colder. But for some reason even knowing I got this bed to sleep in tonight isn’t helping. I decide against giving up and getting back in bed. That won’t solve anything.

I take a chance and slog on down to one of the nicer bits of town about a mile south of where I’m staying. At first it seems like I wasted my time but then one of my regulars approaches.

This has to be the only white guy in office drag in the history of the world to ever give a loser like me a buck. Actually this guy is always good for a tenner or even sometimes a twenty. His face doesn’t change when he sees me. He nods and seldom says much. I appreciate that he never asks me how I’m doing.

Tonight he hands me a ten and is on his way. With about fifteen more like him I’d be off the street and in a bed every night. That thought only depresses me. This is the best I can hope for?

I snap out of that right quick. I can’t afford this shit. Thinking like this is the dubious luxury of other people. Next you know I’ll be pondering my purpose in life and that’s how people lose their shit but good out here.

Much as I want my bottle I stay put. This is one of my better spots because it’s pretty safe even when it gets late. I have got to quit skipping out on work just because I want a bottle. It seems like my guy with his ten spot turned things around a bit for me and pretty soon I got one pocket full of wrinkly dollar bills and the other full of change.

Around midnight I decide I’m in good enough shape and head to the nearest bodega for a bottle and a cat to say hello to. Then I go for a slice, take it into the park and assess my situation. Christ would you look at what a mess this place is?

Fuck it. It’s not like I have to clean up after these losers. People are pigs.

I’m not ready to go back to the room. What felt like a godsend this morning now feels gummy and sad.

I shake myself like a wet dog. Let’s stick to the half full glass here, can we? There’s a rising charge in the air. Weather is coming. Real weather. When I lived indoors I had to turn on a TV or a radio or go online to know what the weather was going to do.

Now I can smell when the weather is changing. I do have the means now for both my bottle and a subway token as well as something to get me into tomorrow but I decide to walk.

After all it doesn’t matter if I get caught in some downpour. In fact the idea is very appealing. I have clean dry clothes and I’m sleeping in a bed tonight. I slow down and turn off in another direction. There is pure animal joy in wandering like this without a set destination.

I make it about eight blocks and am off the main drag when those first fat drops splat down around me on the pavement. That smell rises, the dusty city smell that comes with the beginning of the rain.

I’m on a narrower side street with warm rectangles of light and domestic contentment rising up the walls on either side of me. You’d think people in warm homes with plenty to eat and drink would be happier. But then again I wasn’t.

I begin charging around up and down in the middle of the street, stomping hard up and down in the puddles.

When a car does tear down the street further drenching me in filthy water, I laugh. I can’t be hurt tonight. You in your cars and nice apartments can’t leave me shivering in misery for all the dark hours.

The wind picks up and now we get the light show. I stand in the middle of the street and watch huge jagged cracks open up the sky followed by furious detonations of thunder. No one else is seeing this. For just this moment I am the privileged one. I’m the one who is not missing out on what the real world does and is.

Thanks for reading to the end and for supporting all the writers in your life.